


Burning Bridges

by Leara



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Deviates From Canon, F/F, Gen, Gradual Relationship, This Ain't A Love Story... At First
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-20 03:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Lord's bomb and its deadly, irradiating result had been the only way for Supergirl to save National City? </p><p>Takes place after 1x19 "Myriad", if Kara had been faced with having to leave the Kryptonite-irradiated city and friends behind. A torn, devastated Kara must recover from placing the responsibilities upon own shoulders. Little does she expect Cat to still help her along the way and say just the right things.</p><p>Or for things to complicate between herself -not quite Supergirl- and her former boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted originally on tumblr, now on here.

The city _burns_.

It turns out that Lord got the numbers wrong. While 193.000 is not 300.000 like Lord woefully predicted, they still _die_. Kara hates the word the media and reports throw around— _collateral damage_. No, they were human lives. (Days later, the official death toll mounts to 193.108, and Kara cries for each one of them, for the devastation that has taken root in her bones till even her Kryptonian lungs ache).

She feels like a _coward_. For not having come up with some way to reduce that number, for failing to save the city for it burns. She feels unfair, feels cowardly to be grateful that her friends are safe, that Alex and Winn and James and Lucy and J’onn and Cat and Carter are _safe_. There was little time for goodbyes, and while she knows that this isn’t the end, it feels like it. In simple hours, the city irradiates, and while it burns less and less the further she gets away, an ache tethers, becoming more and more painful for every mile she puts behind her. 

No matter how hard she tries blinking away tears, more form. Mass evacuations and hysteria, and even through the painful irradiation, she hears them cry, hears the despair of an attacked city calling for their hero.

(The hero that can no longer come to their rescue.)

(Kal-El holds her when she crumbles, no longer able to fly further; it is not a matter of strength, but humanity, for while the distance from the kryptonite is safe (as it’ll ever _be_ ), she cannot stand the ache any longer. She crumbles then, in his arms as she swore she never would.)

(Kara Zor-El is not weak but for all her strength, she crumbles.)

National City is her home, and she’s left it to burn, quite literally. _Parts of it_ , she emphasizes, but knows that it’s an unimportant distinction. She has come to be their hero, its keeper, and she failed it deeply. 

(Hates Maxwell Lord for having so little faith; having him less than she does herself.)

She wakes up screaming that first night, surprised she was even able to fall asleep in the first place. The media runs nonstop, and the horrors continue long after Lois turns off the TV. And even though it hardly makes sense, she cries for what is lost but not dead. Cries because she will never be in her couch watching Homeland with her sister (in the apartment whose interiors she has broken, bruised, and replaced so many times), cries because the city who had come to see her as protector slowly assume her dead or worse, a coward.

(She is unsure if it is the human part of her or the pride of the House of El that takes such blow particularly hard.)

Kara has had come to think that the dead could not be cowards; but the truth of Astra’s words left her impression of Alura tainted, and Rao, the memories wash anew; of a broken world that she could not save. (Must this have been how her mother felt?)

* * *

Everything gets a bit _quieter_ after that. Guilt wrecks her as she watches National City muster its rebuilding (avoiding CatCo namedrops border impossible, despite how much the very mention twists her chest a bit), and while Clark is kind and tries to understand, there is a semblance in his hurting expression that tells a similar story. It’s only second-hand hurt on his part, just as he can only imagine Krypton’s loss). 

For a while, she keeps busy in her muted new life; studying the millions of Metropolis’ small routines, taking relief in how dissimilar the local café is from Noonan’s (Alex reassured her it survived along with its owners). Clark invites her to tag along to work once, and seeing Lois and him bicker almost makes her smile, but then it hits her again, and she feigns smiles after that. 

When Alex ships her her things, Kara can’t quite look at the coat of arms, as red fabric slip between her fingertips. There is a softness in it that she doesn’t deserve, and she tells herself that Supergirl might as well have died with National City; because she failed those 193.108 people and her shoulders, despite the Kryptonian dichotomy in her bones, feel too weak to wear the mantle once more.

(It wouldn’t be right, she tells herself; Supergirl seems more of a legacy of a city that is still rebuilding itself, and it’d taint whatever notion of grace lies in ruins.)

Kansas doesn’t feel like home. (It’ll never be home.) Kal-El’s mother is a sweetheart, in a different way than Eliza Danvers (and Alura, and Lara Jor-El), and she sees him in her smile, but Martha has no place in her life, despite Kal-El’s offers of hospitality. She prefers the silence of the fields to the white noise of the city. Metropolis she avoids for the first week, until Martha Kent reminds her too much of Alura in her kindness, and Kara bolts.

(Martha finds her, hours later, and the understanding in the grey-eyed woman’s eyes hurts beyond compare. The woman forgives when Kara deserves none of it.)

Kara Danvers becomes Kathleen Danvers, all due to the Metropolitan way of callously hazing and mispronunciation of their new staffers (she wonders if it was here Cat developed her habit, and the thought prompts the sliver of a smile). It’s a relief, really, because the first week on the job, she expects Perry White to storm to her small cubicle and demand an explanation as to why Cat Grant’s assistant is working freelance for the Planet.

(It doesn’t happen, and she quits out of paranoia; journalism hits a little close to home when the news of National City still circulating the news reports.)

On their phone talks between Alex’ busy shifts and paradigmatic sleeping schedules, her sister tries to coax her into old habits, or pursue new _distractions_. She proposes Kara’s art, but her creativity has spiraled downwards lately, all she paints ending up terribly similar to exploding planets and the charred booms of bombs. Apocalyptic, she supposes, but others move the paintbrush in her hand till it forms scapes of lustrous destruction. 

(She remembers the first time she’d picked up utensils after Krypton’s destruction and _shudders_.)

Yet she knows that she must answer to the unease in her bones; that the House of El was not built on inaction, and so devotes herself, little by little, at an NGO two months later once their focus shifts unto a particularly destructive tornado site. Occasionally, she’ll hear National City’s name thrown about in the office, and typically it prompts her to inhale sharply and bury herself into whatever research her boss asked her to go over.

(It distracts her poorly, and her heart halts whenever she hears distress—only to then fall when Superman rushes to assist, leaving her without purpose, and it’s a bittersweet defeat. She knows she could move anywhere, pick up the pieces of another city and become their protector, but having failed National City feels deeper than when Red Kryptonite laced her decisions.)

* * *

The first time she spots her, her heart skips three beats and she forgets, momentarily, how to breathe. Soon, the steady rhythm of Cat’s heartbeat fills her ears like an old childhood tune, the jingle one that has brought about comfort and wholesome support for three years of her life. It’s been five months and twenty-seven days since the reckoning that Kara can barely even _pronounce_. 

She wants to avoid confrontation, obviously, but other parts of her wishes that Cat will look peripherally and spot her. She clutches the clipboard tighter, reaches for a tableside glass of water before continuing her amicable speech about water resource and recycling coordination statistics, fearing that she’ll actually burn a hole in the back of Cat’s head if she glances too frequently.

By the time the prospecting donor has departed, Cat is nowhere to be seen and Kara’s heart falls with equal parts disappointment and relief. She doesn’t wear a suit beneath this dress, and to peers she’s simply Danvers, energetic and lovable and most easily forgettable. 

(She does her best to be unremarkable these days, a feat that she succeeds painfully whenever Kal-El or Alex checks in.)

“ _Keira_.”

Now, she may be Kryptonian but she jumps at the name, or rather, the voice right behind her. She pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, fidgeting composure, before turning. 

Her memories imitated Cat’s grace poorly. Offered little justice for the woman’s power over the room—or, alternatively, when standing seven inches apart, appraising you with a scrutinizing intimacy that not even White’s recruitment agent beheld.

(No, Cat’s always been better than that; seen her in ways she’d rather she hadn’t, in moments she’d wanted so badly to be _seen_.)

Kara isn’t sure what the absurd expression means; she has always played her cards close to her chest, features betraying no hint of disdain or approval. The way she gulps and squeezes a “Ms Grant” past her lips tell her little may have actually changed.

She feels far more comfortable at the physical appraisal as Cat’s gaze wanders over her clothes, as if formulating a response (Kara knows better than to think she hasn’t already come up with one.)

“I hadn’t expected to see you _here_.”

It’s not a slap but there is disappointment in Cat’s voice, if you know where to look (Kara does. Kara always did.) Even though it couldn’t have taken long for Cat Grant to connect the disappearance of Supergirl and the resignation of her assistant (Kara is foolish to think she hadn’t figured it out far earlier, but the woman’s silence had always puzzled her), she doesn’t bring up National City.

“If I’d known it’d improve your wardrobe this drastically, I’d have fired you sooner.” It’s a typical Grantism, and a wrong one at that. They both knew she left, both able to play back the conversation they last left things, Cat accusatory and upset, no— _disappointed_ by her inability to do better by National City, by Cat Grant. (Somehow, in certain moments, failing Cat is worse than failing National City, and she feels terrible for considering Cat in those moments that come after).

She smiles, unable to help it due to the smirk that lingers on Cat’s face; and all at once, it’s like she’s somehow playfully forced Kara back into a time of lattes and editing coordinations and crazy late nights, and it’s the closest thing to _normal_ Kara has experienced in five months and twenty-seven days, even if she’s standing at a convention discussing post-catastrophic recycling plans with men who make more in a week than she does in a fiscal year.

(She doesn’t mind their looks when she knows, and has seen, the relief prospects of their donations. Somehow, she doubts Cat would approve, but she won’t stand for indecency).

Cat prompts discussion before the moment grows mature. “You work for Michael now?”

(Kara doesn’t know whether to be more surprised at her former boss knowing of Michael Grahams, or the fact she bothered to remember the man’s name _correctly_.)

“Grahams, yes. I… I needed space.” It’s a weak excuse, and it feels less true than months ago when she wrote the resignation.  
  


Brown, catlike eyes narrow skeptically. “Your sister mentioned as much.” Kara’s expression is open as a book. Alex spoke to her? “If not, Olsen reminded me weekly,” she adds offhandedly, then a softness enters her voice—but leaves no doubt that there is still a sliver of disappointment in the older woman’s opinion. “Competent assistants are hard to come by.”

She doesn’t offer her job back, even though someone who hadn’t known Cat Grant might have suspected as much from the tone. But alas, no. Cat knows her and Kara knows Cat. There will be no offers because Cat knows as much as Kara does, that Kara cannot go back, even if National City wasn’t irradiated. 

It isn’t her place anymore.

A woman Kara’s age spots Cat and comes over, expression panicked. Kara wonders how long she has lasted, and furthermore, if Cat entrusts her diary to her. _Does she treat you like I used to?_ she muses with a pang to her heart, but shakes the thought out of her head as Cat begins to talk.

“I…. I do hope Grahams appreciates your worth, …. Kara.” Cat gives her a look, akin to the one of appraisal. “He always did like meek.” There is something slyly jovial to the way she says those departing words.

(Kara doesn’t quite have the words to describe it.)


	2. Chapter 2

Months pass, and the next time, the maneuver is  _ nowhere _ unintentional. 

 

“Do you miss it?”

 

There is a hint of tipsiness in Cat’s voice and Kara looks back at the room for an assistant micro-managing Cat’s reputation before feeling her shoulders sag. Her eyes fall back at the skyline as she chuckles at her own presumption. Like Cat Grant needs a keeper.

 

(Is it sadder to think that she does not  _ any more _ ? Or that she never had the need Kara filled?)

 

The chuckle dies as she contemplates what Cat means by the statement. The city lights? The view? Cat?

 

(All of those things, particularly the latter.)

 

“—Flying. Although  _ soaring _ works just as well, I suppose.” Cat is musing unabashedly—telling Kara more than the slight fragrance of expensive red wine in the air that she has had more than a few drinks tonight—picking words without sticking to a particular synonym. For some reason, it has always flattered Kara to know that the faultless poise drops around her, the liberal, famed eloquence faltering comfortably.

 

“Ms Grant, I canno—”

 

“Oh, please, Kiera, enough with the denials. If Tiger Woods can do a press conference announcing his little harem, you can at least answer my question truthfully. Or  _ not _ , I suppose,” she adds dismissively, “it’s not like I can  _ fire _ you.”

 

No, she cannot. But Cat holds enough power among peers to damage Kara’s career if she wants to. Not that she does. Kara knows this, and the unspoken threat falls to the ground between them as Cat takes a graceful but indignant sip from the crystal glass. It hovers dangerously over the balustrade, dangling from Cat’s hand insignificantly. Giving the illusion that she doesn’t care.

 

Kara releases a breath she didn’t know she’s been holding. It feels like it’s been stuck in her throat for years ( _ three _ , she supposes). “A little.” She pauses, surprised to find a genuine expression on Cat’s face, the older woman listening to Kara’s quiet voice without snarky remark. 

 

(It’s been months, but it’s not like before the plane crash. She hasn’t had a reason to fly, Kal-El’s popularity and efficiency protecting Metropolis, and she’s yet to claim another city. In all honesty, she hasn’t flown since the irradiation knocked the air out of her lungs.)

 

“—it’s… it’s,” Kara lacks the words. For all of her three-year pseudo-editing at Cat’s side, no phrase comes to mind that adequately relays the amount of guilt that washes up in her when she thinks of flying. She flew away from National City—flew away from thousands who didn’t have that brandished option. 

 

_ Unfair _ comes to mind. Even then it seems like privileged heroism. 

 

“ _ Good _ .” Kara’s eyes dart to Cat, because she cannot believe the words. Yet they lack true sadism, true enjoyment of Kara’s misery. “Don’t look at me like that. It wouldn’t seem very like you to walk around without that black cloud. Honestly, you make guilty look miserable.” Then, below her breath, although Kara’s senses pick it up easily, “How’s the rest of us going to cope.”

 

“Ms Grant—” Kara interjects, because is she hearing this right? “You aren’t t—”

 

“—To blame?  _ Oh, Kiera _ , I pay enough therapeutical hours to lessen the complexes of several Victorian writers, which means I know perfectly well that I shouldn’t blame myself. Insecurities are for actresses and teen pop idols going through rehab, I hardly qualify for either.” The snort that accompanies the words belies her supposed absolution. “Yet I know better than to indulge in futile denial when the opposite is true. I had a voice, I had a say in what went down.”

 

Kara winces. She already knows that Cat never agreed with Lord’s idea. But she has yet to publicly declare her reservations against it. Kara wonders if it has more to do with PR than personal guilt; although she finds plenty in those brown, pupil-dilated eyes. 

 

Guilty is a new look on Cat. (This is the woman who relentlessly pursues news but not scandals, who has a policy against crying at work, and shamelessly called her staff more effective whilst under the influence of mind control, and who referred amicably to her staff policies as a French reign of terror.) Kara isn’t sure she likes it.

 

(It’s misplaced because Cat wasn’t the one who took Lord’s bomb to irradiate an entire city, knowing the thousands of lives it would cost; wasn’t the one who considered it the  _ better option _ , than allow millions to die under Myriad’s operation.)

 

“Ms Grant...,” Kara tries once more, dejectedly but willing to reduce the other’s guilt. Her Kryptonian bones carry the weight of an entire planet, after all.

 

Cat chuckles, but it’s a cynical, maniac kind that dies on her lips. “It’s Cat,  _ please _ . After what we did, I think it’s only fair we stop kidding ourselves.”

 

_ Oh, but isn’t kidding themselves on balconies their symphony after all? _

 

It occurs to Kara that she has never told Cat her real name—and it’s not the same as in never having actually admitted that she was Supergirl, only to backtrack later. No, there is no Kara Zor-El in Cat’s  spectacular view of her, and yet she sees the daughter of the House of El better than even Alex or Kal-El. As much as she dismisses her, criticizes her and undermines her importance, she sees the majesty in Supergirl, even in Kara Danvers sometimes (although Kara is no J’onn, that much seems true), and it hurts more than reliving the explosion of a dead world.

 

Well, she used to.

 

(Kara would like to believe they haven’t changed. But somewhere between 193.108 casualties and an e-mailed resignation, they did.)

 

Enough for  _ It’s Cat, please _ .

 

She catches herself looking at Cat, really giving herself time to look and see. Cat’s walls are infamous—and regularly occurring reasons behind personnel firings. She sees the falter in those eyes, the dismissal of manners. People say alcohol makes her mean, but in Kara’s opinion, it brings out unadulterated brilliance. 

 

“I can’t go back, M— _ Cat _ ,” she catches herself, pretends for a moment that they are talking about the humid room behind the balcony. But Cat sees too much and Kara looks too deep for that illusion.

 

“Why’d you choose this job, Keira?”

 

The question startles her. She frowns, trying to decipher the tactics for this particular question. She wants to say,  _ Excuse me? _ but it wouldn’t fool anyone, least of all Cat Grant. She hardly notices the slip between names—figures it interchangeable by now. Part of old comforts and habits, and those go few and far in between in Metropolis. “I wanted to help people.”

 

Cat snorts, but there isn’t a sarcastic  _ oh please _ to prefix the sentence. “There are hundreds of ways you could do that.  _ Thousands _ for you. You aren’t delusional enough to think one NGO matters.”  _ I taught you better  _ lingers in the air.

 

Kara is beginning to realize that the disappointment is more about wasted potential than rightful blame about Supergirl’s actions, or lack thereof. She also wonders if Cat would have been so callous in her choice of topic if she hadn’t consumed four of the event’s customized drinks (trademark pending). 

 

For some reason, she feels  _ offended _ at that, more so on the behalf of the remaining staffers at the NGO than herself—the people who have no superpowers; who choose to daily and ordinarily display extraordinary compassion and charity—, than Supergirl’s reputation. Somehow, Cat’s words  _ lessen _ their efforts—and she realizes a second too late (long enough to open her mouth before it dawns on her) that they are  _ meant _ to entrap; to rile Kara up. “—That’s—.”

 

Cat issues an inelegant snort, as if she had somehow predicted this. Predictably Kara. The thought hurts Kara, even though she finds comfort in it as well. “Yes?”

 

For a moment, Kara doesn’t know what to say. For all her superpowers, falling short of Cat Grant always seemed to be her greatest, most poorly timed one. “It  _ needs _ to matter.” It sounds horribly desperate, and Kara wishes it didn’t—that she just gave one of the greatest journalist of their age and time a naif’s words, the idealist’s foolhardy ambitions to revitalize a lost cause in a greedy, self-obsessed world that cares little for dreamers and lesser for charity. 

 

(It will never compensate for the guilt in her heart. The weight of 193.108 souls is not a light one, or to be taken lightly.)

 

She stutters under her breath but takes a deep one. “I think this is the best way.”

 

“For now.” Cat’s two words offer brutally little. Kara isn’t entirely certain it’s a question or an affirmative. Regardless, she nods and stares uncomfortably off in the distance. She leans against the railing, wishing the wind would grab her and lead her someplace else. 

 

She catches Cat staring at her. The expression begs her to answer the question. She cannot pass words from her lips, cannot deny or confirm, and so they stick in her throat. She cannot say that she is sorry, for what will it prove, if not her total failure and responsibility? Instead she carries the guilt and grief of a disaster, unable to look the woman who once consoled her in the eyes.

 

They have become intimate strangers. “Right now, it needs to be.”

 

(Those words lack conviction, and she dares not even look up to see Cat gone; part of her relieved not to face the expression of  _ predictable _ disappointment.)

 

* * *

 

 

The article is attached to an anonymous email circulating the organization. Impeccable organization skills aside, she hears about it when Liza from Web Design starts the conversation with a, “Hey, Kara, didn’t you used to live in National City?”

 

(There is always a degree of envy in her voice, combined with a gossiper’s appetite for juicy details to throw into the water cooler throng. Kara does not blame her, not truly, but the perkiness of her voice doesn’t seem right, not even seven months after the aptly named National City Tragedy.)

 

(Then again, how would she know that whenever Kara closes her eyes, she hears the cries of the disaster all over?)

 

Kara nods slowly, frowning until Liza has brought the magazine before her. Eyes drink in the glossy cover, its fonts and composition intimately recognizable. 

 

(It stings a little, just like the memories of burning the midnight oil alongside Cat to ensure the best layouts do.)

 

She only  _ barely _ manages to stop herself from letting fingertips trace the CatCo title reminiscingly before Liza flips the magazine open, pointing at an article that spread several pages, by the looks of it (knowing CatCo’s layouts, Kara is almost  _ certain _ of it). “... It’s only by chance I saw it, really—for all my fondness of National City, I have been preferring  _ The Tribune _ ever since,  _ well _ .” She makes a hand motion stating the obvious, as if the headline of the article isn’t. 

 

_ Supergirl Memorial Targeted By Riots After Uncovering of Controversial Evidence _

 

Kara half expects the byline to read Catherine Grant—and is struck by physical relief when it isn’t, when its reporter is a name, Emily Parkerson, that she recalls as a prominent journalist on Cat’s senior staff. The headline is a bit long (for CatCo, that is, but perhaps Parkerson is of The Trib, Kara cannot remember the specifics). Even then, the words on the page takes her aback, causes her throat to go dry, and, if possible, swell. 

 

Liza continues her commentary, having seemingly been doing so when Kara’s senses return. “... I don’t get why they’re still angling their stories around her. I mean, she’s  _ gone _ , it’s getting a bit… pathetic, isn’t it?” She pauses, but Kara can tell she doesn’t expect an answer. 

 

(Good, because Kara doesn’t even know what to  _ say _ .)

 

She has expected this, truly. In spite of her relentless attempts to avoid the CatCo brand and its publishing, one can only keep oneself out of the loop for so long, and CatCo has been distancing itself from the Supergirl brand ( _ failure _ , a voice at the back of her head whispers, and—in spite of her vehement opposition towards failures, sounding tragically much like Cat) for months. 

 

“—then again, at least it’s a gracious  fallback.”

 

Kara blinks, confused. Is she hearing Liza right? “Wait, what?”

 

“Cat Grant,” Liza repeats slowly. “She  _ named _ Supergirl. Practically branded her. Honestly, Danvers, did you live under a r—”

 

“Not that,” Kara says, perhaps a bit snappish. “What about Grant?”

 

(She tells herself it isn’t obsessively; that it makes perfect sense for her to inquire about Cat¨s stand on the articles.)

 

“—She’s finally discrediting Supergirl. Or at least ceasing her defense,” Liza corrects, softer this time. “Which is pretty much the same, isn’t it?”

  
(Kara’s heart drops and falls to the ground like a comet across the sky.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried hard to match the first chapter style-wise, but I am unsure if I am quite satisfied with this chapter. Alas, I was too excited to write what comes next to ignore this chapter for longer. 
> 
> But THANK YOU ALL WHO KUDOS'D AND COMMENTED! You have no idea how excited I got to see other people wanting to follow this crazy, barely-plotted story :D


	3. Chapter 3

_The blast startles her—she_ knows _it’s coming and yet, as Lord’s bomb bristles and explodes under her,  knocking the air out of her lungs; filling them dangerously with gaspy breaths of crystalline kryptonite vapor—she can only watch with horror. She coughs and her bones ache with the motion as eyes watch the engulfing terror below. She feels a hard arm grab her—he’s been deadweight, knocked out during the ordeal, that the suddenness of his conscious act startles her. Kal-El’s eyes meet her own, and if only she could face him, but she stares into the hell below as the blast_ cripples _the cityscape in byproducts of explosions._

  


_Their screams fill her ears with muted intensity, and she feels her cheeks wetten as she struggles to breathe calmly. “Kara!” he calls urgently, without softness, but she cannot yet, even as the kryptonite disperses and weakens her, she can feel it—_

  


_“Kara!_ Now! _” Fingers dig into the forearm as he hovers, face a labyrinth of contorted emotions. Deep down, she knows she should leave before she is unable; before airspace irradiates as well, but she cannot yet, she has to know, and the plan—the plan she never liked in the first place, did not condone and yet—it is because of her that Lord’s creation destroys to protect._

  


_She wrestles herself free with more force than she means to. “But I need to—”_

  


_Words betray her. To the naked eye, there is only smoke and flames tinged green—a sickly green that will surely haunt her—and the pain is overwhelming to the martian heart._

  


_In minutes, Myriad’s effects collapse and Kara realizes with horror what this means. The destruction of Non’s forces—the Kryptonians that lived under Rao’s light. She feels it too, like a singeing bonfire threatening to hold her down till she chokes, an ache that seems to come from_ within _as cells decay and deteriorate to no avail._

  


_She watches hell unfold and knows that it is all her fault. She failed National City and the truth devastates her as she watches wide-eyed her home be engulfed in radiation. The fumes make her dizzy, crawl down her throat even high above ground, claw at her till breaths wheeze and cough._

  


_Black spots cloud her vision as her earbud croaks, emitting a sharp ringing that does not even come remotely close to the effects of the kryptonite._

  


_“... K—ara…” Buzzing noise, interference, oh Rao she prays it’s her and not devastation— “G...et out, Kara, the … -yptonite levels!”_

  


_“Alex,” she calls (cries) out  breathlessly, in despair; it requires enormous focus for the screams, the cries—they threaten to overwhelm her like it’s the first day of experiencing Kryptonian cells adapt to the golden Sun. Her sister’s voice makes her shake, and it takes her a moment to realize that Rao, she feared for her sister’s life._

  


_“... there’s nothing you can do, Kara.” Her sister’s voice attempts assurance, attempts solace, attempts justification and professionalism, but Kara is crumbling and she does not know how this will ever be okay._

  


It certainly doesn’t change the way she wakes up and _screams_.

  


* * *

  


_SUPERGIRL DISCREDITED BY CATCO: QUEEN OF ALL MEDIA BREAKS SILENCE_

  


(The first article is small; brief and free of unnecessary superlatives. Kara recognizes the tone, the wording powerfully—and painfully—akin to Cat’s particular style. The ones that follow are… _harder_.)

  


She has trouble accepting it, which is truly absurd. Magazines have alleged to Supergirl’s death (although some hopefully, generously (—futilely?) word it as _disappearance_ ) for _months_ , and she has not donned the costume for about as long (the cape lies banished to the back of her drawer, as if in refusal of her birthright. 

  


What _birthright?_ To fail an _entire race?_ ). 

  


( _Not an entire race_ , she corrects herself, feeling shame rise and threaten to take her down below where even Rao’s light cannot help her; but _two_. For all the humans she failed in National City, she was a direct party in the extinction of her planet’s survivors. They may have been criminals, they may have been the enemy, but they were also her _people_ —Krypton’s daughters and sons, Rao’s blessed children. And she may as well have pronounced their deaths with her part in the kryptonite bomb. _You are your mother’s daughter_ , indeed (those words, _how they haunt her now_ , Non’s eternal damnation toward her immortalized in guilt and grief; and yet—she has never before been so much like Alura who damned millions to a similar fate) and the words nauseate her more than Non’s disgust did him).

  


She once wore the costume and its crest with pride, wishing her mother could have seen her, had paid tribute to the dead and honored the lives of those she loved. The crest of the House of El as a beacon of hope, of justice ( _and the American way_ , jests Cat’s voice in her head, and oh, the words, they are _cruel_ ).

  


_Stronger together._ How cruel those words seem now to the one who caused the devastation of her people. Her family’s legacy is a barren one that slips between her fingers like ashes.

  


To the DEO, she is now only a distant resource, unable to help in the sea of Fort Rozz escapees who weren’t affected by the kryptonite. The criminals who soon discover the privileges a hellish tragedy has birthed and greedily reap its spoils of war.

  


(Alex doesn’t reveal this on the phone, but her busier schedule speaks on behalf of her, stealing precious spare time and leaving her sounding drained by the end of the day. Even without the mantle of superheroic pursuits, Kara knows her sister, hears all the things she cannot _say_.)

  


The idea of being _useless_ sits unwell with her. Because all of the DEO’s work lies within the irradiated zones where she cannot go. 

  


In some ways, it is worse than first repressing the truth of her powers. Because she knows what _could be_. (What _had been_ , only to fail.)

  


Yet even unbearable as it is to drown the sounds of people in need, to mute the chaotic senses that before had a purpose, she tells herself that it is for the better. The humans have their Superman (and he is so very _theirs_ that it breaks her heart to think him Jor-El’s son); they needn’t a failure in Supergirl; to have their hopes raised only to fall doom to her inadequacies and incompetence as a hero. 

  


(She winces at this, cries when she surmounts the strength to cry; because she wanted so badly to be the hero her parents always meant for her to be, but there are too many deaths on her hands.) It is a fate that gets easier to accept (although never _easy_ ); that she is better as a human than she ever was a hero. Kal-El is a better hero, he didn’t fail his city like a coward. He didn’t carry the bomb and drop it from the sky to irradiate a city and inadvertently kill thousands.

  


Didn’t kill his own race. Didn’t crown himself the king of a lost race in one swoop, however unintentional. Because Kal-El isn’t _of_ Krypton, not _truly_. Not like those who died, the language on their lips, thoughts an array of chirping accents that no words describe (none that Kara has found), incomparable to any equivalent on Earth. Silvery, melodic, oddly musical, like the breeze after years of despair. Kara knows few words in the English language that suffices to describe Kryptonese, whether the Kandorian dialect or that of Argos City.

  


(The language that fills Kara’s mind in spite of all the years that have passed since its world was destroyed. A dead language, she realizes, and wonders what that makes her.) 

  


Perhaps Cat’s decision is one that Kara should have seen coming. Dejectedly, she can certainly see why—see _how_ —she failed thousands, see how she failed Cat. Because she thought she’d seen—desperately so—something in the older woman’s gaze that had boden differently than what the criticizing words of the article offers. Now Kara only sees how _wrong_ she was. There will be no absolution for her, just as there will be no defense.

  


Cat may not believe in failures—but Supergirl certainly made for one in her eyes.

  


* * *

  


(She’s supposed to be his _older_ cousin. _Supposed_ to be the one who knows all the answers, supposed to be his _Alex_ , she realizes, recalling how much she looked up to her foster sister as a child. She can’t be that to Kal-El, not like _this_. Not _failing_.)

  


“I’m… I don’t know what to do.” The helpless silence falls between them. She expects disappointment, because that’s what she would have felt. She’s supposed to be older and wiser and better and here she is, unable to even know. Clinging unto the railing that parts the roof from air with the despair of a girl with a dead language on her lips.

  


“Kara, it isn’t—” His pronunciation of her name is akin to _theirs_. Not Kryptonese with its whistling, musical accents, —which not even Alex masters. “You cannot keep blaming yourself. It was a terrible thing, but we aren’t _gods_. Sometimes we can’t fix everything—even with all our powers.”

  


(Kara refuses this, but feels the resolve waver. Because although she has never thought herself a god, she has always been able to do _something_ ; if for all her powers, she still cannot undo what’s done, it means she is no better. They _taunt her._ For was it not to gods to decide the fates of thousands? Did she not suppose herself one, to decide what she did?)

  


He sighs, but it’s not pity. It’s concern, and she cannot bear it. His voice is softer now, begging her to impose confidence upon him. Like he truly is her baby cousin, starry-eyed and idolizing. “It’s been eight months, Kara... National City is back on its feet. Strength isn’t just physical, it’s also about forgiving yourself.”

  


She sees why he chose journalism; his words, despite the awkwardness of this intimate conversation, hit hard, find something within her and resonate. Cat would be proud if Kara had ever come to such resonance. (Now she’ll never know, and Kara fears this means that she’ll never resonate like him, like he has Rao’s unwavering faith behind his blue eyes.) She isn’t sure if it’s Clark or Kal-El who speaks—and as such, realizes that he has never had that duality; his bones may be Kryptonian, and he wears two identities—Superman and Clark Kent—but he holds no memories of the Kryptonian celebrations or its customs and traditions; the formal vows spoken by the men of the House, the audacious sternness begging listening. He is only Kal-El to _her_ , and she realizes she clings to it, feebly so.

  


“You sound like Jor-El, when he....” Words suggest jest, pride perhaps; but her tone is wistful, voice brittle and chuckle empty. There’s that awed look; keen to know of his father, yet content with the man he is without such knowledge. And Kara envies him for the simplicity; envies him that no foe has made the comparison to a loathed judicator that condemned her own people. 

  


(She wonders if he is Jor-El, as she has become Alura.)

  


He takes a deep, unneeded breath. A habit, she is sure, and in it, reveals his humanity. It looks good on him, always has. Ka—no, _Clark_ knows who he is without Krypton. Mankind’s hero. A reporter at the Daily Planet. Lois’ husband. 

  


Kara cannot even think of herself without Krypton’s grasp. Those who define her were lost to Krypton or its legacy. Alura. Her father. _Astra_ , she recalls with a tear-jerking pang. Yet she does not stand alone on this Earth, this rogue planet obsessed with itself. Alex. Clark. James. Winn. Survivors of endeavors that others did not live to recollect. She has people, even if she is without one. 

  


(Whose fault is that?)

  


“I was trying more for Clark Kent,” he replies playfully, and the sheepish grin breaks the spell somehow. It makes her heart ache a little bit less even though her chuckle is hollow.

  


(Would Clark Kent have written such an article? she wonders sadly, searching his expression, as thoughts fall upon it once more.)

  


Eyes fall upon the cape. Mesmerized, traumatized. She cannot pick _one_. She cannot tear her eyes from it, so akin as it is to the one folded callously at the back of the drawer in her dresser. Yet she somehow forces herself to, even though the memory—oh, the memories—threaten to tear her apart. 

  


(Did they scream? she wonders,—like the humans did? Or did they succumb to the fate of Krypton wordlessly, soundlessly? _She doesn’t know_ , and it tears her apart in much the same way she imagines kryptonite would, but never quite dies.)

  


“Don’t you miss it?” he asks, and she nearly breaks into pieces, and it’s got little to do with Cat Grant’s article.

  


(Or so she tells herself.)

  


* * *

  


The way fingertips trace the lines, almost as if she does not possess (even though the lead glasses restrict her no better than instinct these days) the ability to make out the letters on her own, as if their meanings would otherwise be lost to her, should be _disturbing_ for even in their clear intentions of forsaking all things Supergirl (all things _her_ , quite publicly, as if to compensate for Cat’s lionizing of her), she still somewhat reveres it with complicated disdain. 

  


‘ _As a powerful woman of multi-media, Metropolis’ Cat Grant has in the past vehemently defended the actions and career of Supergirl. Last year came the exception from which Supergirl’s reputation never quite recovered when Grant broadcasted her concern as to the hero’s worrisome behavior…._ ’

  


The news interview is harder to block, of course, running rampant into her ear on a loop across the break room of Minding Hands headquarters. 

  


‘— _The caped heroine  has been missing since April of last year, when bombings wrecked the city. Rumors have thrived online and several publications declaring her death to be implied by her absence. Only now is Grant stepping forward with previously withheld knowledge as to the undertakings of the devastating tragedy that claimed hundreds of thousand lives, asserting Supergirl’s role in the crisis…_ ’

  


(Liza isn’t around, and Kara is grateful for the lack of whatever insight the web designer seems to think she brings into light. Liza’s a good person at heart, she knows this, but the article plays over and over in her head, along with Kal-El’s words, and she’s just _so_ —

  


“Kara?”

  


Her head jerks up unceremoniously. She’s been caught in the poor attempts to tune out the break room noises, mostly for the sake of ignoring the interview that causes tension beneath her flesh. (Not that it has resulted in actual consumption of the ramen in front of her.)

  


Michael Grahams stands expectant, smile not quite reaching his eyes and she’s honestly still surprised, three months into contract, that he knows her name.

  


“Mr. Grahams!” she replies, flustered and smiles back, suppressing the imminent guilt that CatCo namedrops and mentions of the tragedy inspire. She looks at him awkwardly, as she banishes her mixtures of emotions. Conversations make it slightly easier to mute the constancy of the reporter’s summary of the Cat Grant interview. 

  


“I’ve told you, no need for formalities. We are all friends here, aren’t we?” Grahams insists nonchalantly, leaning against the table and following her line of sight at the detection of her distracted self. She hasn’t realized that she’s staring at the TV somewhat absently, where footage of Cat being interviewed is airing for the umpteenth time today. 

  


“Oh yes! Impeccable timing, that one…” he murmurs, turning his eyes back at her. “ _Speaking of CatCo_ , Kara, I have something that I think you’re just the person for…”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for all the appreciative feedback! I originally planned to post this chapter way earlier, but it protested the writing process. It's a bit different from the first two, but don't worry, Cat will make an appearance in next chapter!
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment about what you liked/didn't like, for while I do have some of this fic planned, and its sequel (hooray! - it's gonna be awesome), I like to take feedback into account?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo and behold, another chapter! Written mostly aboard the Amtrak on our way to San Diego. I'm not sure when next chapter will be up, but in treat, this chapter became way longer than first intended. As promised, Cat! (and a very frustrated Kara...)

The chiffon moves against her skin like a second skin, without chafing or pressure, but it doesn’t change the fact that she is currently attached to Grahams’— _Mike’s_ , she corrects, (for how many time hasn’t he?)—arm, every inch the traditionalist eye candy that would have the feministic tone of her former employer roll her eyes. Had not been there, however, she would have been _wildly_ uncomfortable, for despite appearances, this event is more than a simple display of heteronormative male elitism.

  


(She grins subtly at the turn of phrase, knowing Cat’s words would have deemed it bruter, yet nonetheless true.)

  


The gala has every bit to do with the reason why Mr. Grahams has become Michael, then _Mike_. Kara still isn’t entirely comfortable with the informality, knowing him so little, but it helps that when his arm finds the small of her back, it doesn’t climb lower for any ulterior motives of bedding his subordinate. Because Mike cares little for heteronormativity—admitted himself that he usually preferred bringing his husband, Raphael, for these events, but Kara’s introduction served a purpose.

  


That, and Raphael is in Venezuela overseeing relief efforts.

  


Michael is a good boss, moderately competent for the role of overseeing charitable work but his idealism is jaded these days, and he hardly counts for an evolutionist any longer. But his organization is his heart child, and Minding Hands does good work in spite of the gray streaks and permanently vacant, exhausted look in the eyes of its founder. (Truly to blame is a heart murmur, palpably obvious to Kryptonian ears, and worrisomely so, but Kara cannot truly say if his fatigue does not spring from decades of seeing the inevitableness of human suffering reducing his work to borderline futile efforts.)

  


Even so, Michael puts a good front for the owner and founder of one of the more reputable charity organizations. He navigates the event with the savoir-faire of someone who has done it for years, and if Kara’s discomfort hadn’t settled in the pit of her stomach rivaling being outed as Supergirl, she’d definitely openly admire the casual transitions between the personal lives and business decisions of her boss.

  


There are ulterior motives, of course, for mingling alongside her boss (and friend, she adds as an afterthought, because cannot avoid the conclusion after how much time they have spent together since his proposal after he’d shanghaied her into his office with a new plan).

  


* * *

  


_“How come you never told me you worked for CatCo?” His voice hadn’t been accusatory, there was a beam in his smile (even if it did not reach his eyes; never did)._

  


_Kara’s posture had stiffened noticeably, but Grahams had been looking down, flipping through rascal papers on his desk. “It… I, who told you?” She’d tried for conversational, a nervous, passably awkward, laugh escaping her. Thoughts raced to the unspoken, jesting threat of Cat’s making, and she’d suddenly feared if she had to look for a job to replace this one whose salary barely covered her rent._

  


_“Oh, it was some assistant of theirs when I called to confirm their donation.” Unlike others (Cat.), Grahams waved his hand dismissively, as if he finds the thing entirely amusing, but accidental. A funny coincidence. His heart murmur helped ease the tension in Kara’s body a bit, even if she focused a little too hard on the asymmetric_ thump-thump _._

  


_“Donation?” Upon hearing that notorious word, she suspected this to be the true motivator for the sudden attention. She had seen the figures—CatCo’s donations tended to be formidably generous, and Grahams had been campaigning for a particular relief effort in the Midwest regions with his former passion of legend._

  


_“Yes, they said they’d been looking to donate for a while, and found our organization to be_ particularly _reputable.”_

  


You aren’t delusional enough to think one NGO matters _echoed in her mind with clarity._

  


Hypocrite, _Kara had thought smugly, nearly unable to keep a straight face as she smiled to herself._

  


_“So I was thinking, since you had worked for them and all, you might want to liaise? Unless—” He’d made a grimace, like he’d been trying to figure out if she had ended things on bad terms,—_  


  


_(— bad terms was a formidable way to call 193.108 deaths.)_  


  


_— “No?” He’d lingered, offering her very little legroom. She could practically count the zeroes in the risen octave of his voice, and she had known then that there was still passion somewhere in this Coumadin-popping man._

  


_“Of course, I mean sure, I’ll do it.” She squirmed, fearing herself to squeak, but if Grahams had been looking for a reason to think her particularly wistful by the news, he didn’t look too closely as he had squeezed her shoulder and departed, leaving her to return to her lukewarm ramen._  


* * *

  


  


There have been many ramen since then. Three weeks have passed since the dainty request, and Kara’s admiration of the man has only grown. It is an unusual way to pass responsibility of the National City donors over to a recent hire—especially one _adamant_ to keep commuting to an absolute minimal—but as Kara had proven capable, it had encouraged Michael to mentor and facilitate her into the crowds at more formal events.

  


The Annual Writing Guild Awards had been a perfect example.

  


(Even if Kara had had to issue Liza’s help to get an appropriate gown in time for Michael’s last-moment decision to bring her along, fashioning it suitable for a quinceanera-style graduation to what he’d called the “big leagues” of charity work. Liza had enviously scowled, unprivy as she’d been to Michael’s homosexual streak although _how_ remained a mystery to Kara.)

  


Not only is it a way to flaunt his recent Director of Event Coordination—a title Kara had cringed at and initially thought bogus, until Michael had assured her it was a formality more than anything else—but also a way to subtly familiarize her with “the terrain”. Kara has quickly realized this includes navigating the social preferences of the elitist donors on Minding Hands’ list. One example includes a divorced couple who, if within the vicinity of each other, forego any notion of civility and sabotage nearby social finesse (or what remained), but who, separately, donate charitably to several of Michael’s campaigns.

  


The sound of glasses being raised and clinked against each other jerks her from the particular memory, and she looks to her side to see if Michael noticed, but he is speaking animatedly with a man in his fifties. She doesn’t recognize him, but it’s hardly surprising. Metropolis has several philanthropists who live the jetsetter life the farthest away from the Faraday Street office of Minding Hands.

  


She smoothens the navy fabric of her dress and cheers with a shy smile. As far as she allows auditory senses to pick up on, the topic has not fallen on Kara’s recent promotion or responsibilities, and she allows herself to zone out for a moment longer. She is unsure what is causing this… indirection, distracting her from focus she’d worried about only half an hour before, until her eyes fall upon Cat.

  


As in _Cat_.

  


Cat, who is standing less than twenty feet away and even if she gives no indication, probably has picked up on the way Kara’s spine imitates a rebar. She foregoes breathing for several heartbeats—as if her heart forgets the imitation of human around Cat, and the thought is enough to drive anger through her, the injustice of her lack of self-control around the other flooding her system.

  


The slightest crack of pressurized glass breaks her spell of frustrated concentration. She looks down, amazed that the glass remains intact—although she can spot a hairline fracture along its edge, feeling the champagne begin to seep through.

  


Ever determined to allow her mistake to be displayed, she quickly downs the glass. This, of course, Michael notices.

  


“Ah, Kara! I was wondering when I’d be able to liberate you from that.” His eyes search her features for anything that betrays her usual self, anything to offer reasoning, as his slender fingers relieve her of the glass whose fracture remain unnoticeable until later detection by wait staff. She blushes at that—because she has leagues to go, human or not, till she reaches Michael’s social grace.

  


“Boldness, I suppose,” she replies to cover, refuses to allow herself to be outed to being directly affected by Cat’s presence. The words of the article still firmly in mind, Cat has confused her. Last they spoke, however frictional, Kara got the impression that if nothing else, the older woman had understood the need for a transition, for a pause (even if it had never been said, requiring confession where Kara had offered none). The article, however, had contained none of the understanding, and even here weeks after its publishing, Kara feels herself be riled up by its legacy.

  


No, it is arguably more directional. Kara hadn’t been upset with Parkerson. No, it had been its quoted source. The “former advocate of Supergirl” (oh how ignorant the media had been of the depth of that truth, because Cat had been so much more than that).

  


Who suddenly stands in front of her, _inspecting_ her boss.

  


“Michael,” the Queen of All Media says amicably, and Kara barely fights a frown at the friendliness of the statement, determining it far from the feigned affection of Cat Grant. Yet, like with Kara, there is friction, distance. Some disrupted place in the past.

  


“ _Catherine_ , how good to see you come.” Michael’s tone is honest, and he looks genuinely pleased, the smile—if possible—blossoming across his features.

  


“Ah well, _The Tribune_ ’s senior staff all but dominate the nominations this evening, it’d be _tactless_ of me not to come—even if Metropolis knows very little of tact.”

  


In a room full of journalists, it’s hard not to laugh at the dual absurdity of her words. _Tact_ is no word Kara would use generously regarding journalists, and she barely ( _emphasis!_ ) stifles the chuckle. Luckily, Michael chuckles as well, a heartwarming sound that piques Kara’s curiosity in whatever shared past lies between Cat and her current boss. Kara had been sure there was none, especially considering that her boss, who has facilitated her promotion based solely unto the spur of the revelation of Kara’s familiarity with CatCo, has suggested no such thing.

  


It borders blasphemy, but for the moment, Kara can only lower her head in an abysmal attempt of dodging Cat’s direct attention. An attempt that works perhaps for three seconds, till Michael stifles his chuckle and moves unto introductions, like he has been doing all night.

  


“Ah well, they do, at times, _try_ … I believe you know Miss Danvers?” Kara envies him the finesse of the words in the palpably tense atmosphere, considers him for a moment to be without _any_ , when Cat’s tension apparently dissipates.

  


A million possibilities of how Cat may possibly reply to that run through Kara’s head. In the end, it is none of them that win out.

  


“Why, of course.” There is no insult in her words but the tone belies the sentiment. It is too sweet, too artificial, and the only thing it doesn’t belie is the way she watches Kara—the way that makes Kara’s throat tighten inexplicably. “I don’t suppose you’ve relapsed to clichés, or mid-life crises, Michael. I used to hold you above that. _Certainly_ after Raphael.”

  


Michael takes the insult in stride, no disdain slips (in fact, she cannot recall a moment it has done so the entire evening. In midst of prying journalists, it’s quite a feat). “No, Kara’s only here as my attaché, darling. She will take over as my mediator between my more, ah, _intricate_ donors.”

  


“Am I to be included in such _displeasurable_ company?” Cat asks, no, _teases_. Kara cannot tell which, and wavers like an uncertain child, or someone watching an Olympic tennis match.

  


“Only if you wish.” Michael never misses a beat, and he is, well, charming even if Cat deflects such attempts. _Usually_ , at least, Kara recalls, unsure where exactly she plays in this display of apparent flirtatious camaraderie.

  


“I hardly find the Montgomerys _that_ enticing,” Cat snorts, but it never once lacks finesse. Kara is confused until she realizes that it is _the_ Felicia and Leonard Montgomery that she is speaking of, whom earlier troubled several wait staff with rather anatomical threats.

  


Michael lingers—again, Kara notices, because he makes a habit of it, at least near Kara, —as if he finally picks up on the way Kara’s attention remains on Cat throughout the bantering exchange, and Cat’s eyes stray to Kara’s every other second.

  


(Which is why Kara knows that he is lying when he says next,) “Ah, ladies, excuse me, I see Caleb over there—Caleb!” he excuses himself quickly, quite obviously.

  


Cat is the one to break the silence. “He always was quite intuitive.”

  


“When?” Kara’s voice tries for charming; casual, engaging. It is rendered futile upon the look on Cat’s face—too intense, too inquiring. Predatory, then settling for something softer. Like a—pardon the pun, —cat’s.

  


Whatever she determines, she caves to explanation.

  


“In college. When we first met. Not that you’d know,” Cat says sharply, but it sounds like a means to cover softness to Kryptonian ears that easily listen to her breathing, “having barely been whisked into existence.”

  


The idea of Mike and Cat having been friends in college seems bizarre yet Kara hardly questions it, too focused, (distracted? _Puzzled_ ) by the contradiction of Cat’s words and the way she looks at her—the words she uses and the words she _means_ , and suddenly her frustrations rise to the surface once more, because she isn’t Mike and she isn’t Clark; she cannot carry the burden of what happened _and_ what to do next.

  


She needed Cat. In a _way-back-when_ fashion that the expensive gowns leave no room for and that her heart cannot bear. In a way that seems defiled by the articles that CatCo (and other news outlets) has been posting relentlessly—all of which seem directed at _her_.

  


Kara cannot bear this dichotomy; as if she is _still_ Supergirl. Cat treats her as two separate people—and even if it is exactly what Kara _asked_ , in a way _without-saying-so_ , it isn’t what she _needs_. It’d be bearable if she was able to don the suit and be a hero again. But she isn’t, and she can’t. She wonders if Cat has gone blind—can’t she see the brokenness of what she’s doing? Can’t she—

  


“Care to dance?” Cat asks and she’s dauntless. Kara, in the meanwhile, does her best to avoid the impression of a gaping fish (unsure if she actually succeeds) and can only watch speechlessly as Cat takes her silence for a yes.

  


Thank Rao (or whichever god will listen) that she is more well-versed in poise than verbal sangfroid. Thoughts still and frustration thaws only because Kara multitasks her personal life really poorly around Cat Grant.

  


Kara sees red. Literally. The deep crimson that accentuates Cat’s figure, a bold rival to the dark navy of Kara’s own dress. Her gaze dives lower without realizing—because frankly, even though her heels aren’t tall enough to dwarf Michael’s stature, they marginalize the efforts of Cat’s stylish five-inch heels to a point where Kara still has to dip her eyes slightly down.

  


Flustered, she silently thanks the pace of the music for not accentuating _her_ rhythmical tactlessness. Several beats pass until she looks up at Cat, wondering what others must see only to find herself struck speechless at the expectant look on her former boss’ face.

  


“Finally, I thought it’d take you _light-years_ to notice…” she murmurs, but doesn’t exactly make a move to embolden the words (knowing Kara would have heard, anyway). As far as Grantisms go, it’s a fairly dull one. Kara isn’t sure whether she is talking about the look or the dress.

  


For once, Kara wishes her immunity didn’t extend to alcohol. If not, she might have blamed her next emboldened reply on the chugged champagne. “I’d know about those, wouldn’t I.”

  


It’s a softly whispered confession, one that evidently startles—despite her expectancy, it wasn’t what Cat had thought she’d say. Her mouth parts slightly and Kara takes a second’s notice to study its curve. If mouths could frown all on their own, she decides, Cat’s could do.

  


The conclusion is a wistful one.

  


“You’re moving up in this world,” Cat deflects, gathering herself and offering a way out. Despite her surprise, she hasn’t once moved out of beat or misstepped. Kara would have.

  


_Up, up, up and away_.

  


(But she doesn’t want to, and part of her wants to whisper, so only Cat can hear, _But I don’t want to_.)

  


It is different when she doesn’t have Cat. Never would she thought that she’d come to rely on someone so much—for their disapproval to matter so many months after the fact. In her own frustration, she cares more about what Cat thinks of her than what Michael makes of her organizational skills.

  


Kara is surprised to find herself blinking away a straying tear at the words. It trails down her cheek but halts before Kars expects it to reach her chin. She opens her eyes, confusion contorting upon her face, to find Cat has closed the space between them, index finger having caught the treacherous drop that should matter so little.

  


(Has she not cried thousands for the 193.108 who died under her watch?)

  


“You know my policy about crying,” Cat reminds her, but her voice is without sternness, without reprimand (or perhaps a playful one). Kara cannot remember a time Cat has spoken this softly.

  


“I don’t work for you anymore, _M_ —Cat,” she amends because calling her by formality seems blasphemous when she is close enough to kiss her.

  


_Kiss?_ A kiss should be the last thing on her mind, given the fact that her former _boss_ is catching tears with her fingertips. Kara takes a quaking breath—partly because she cannot recall when she last took one, (for this, she blames Cat, Cat’s presence, but not wholeheartedly)—and realizes once senses recover that the music has stopped and people once more mingle in groups.

  


The thought of dropping her arms from Cat’s sides suddenly seem intolerable. She restrains a pout—because she has already _cried_ once and she will not forgive herself for reducing herself wholly to a child in Cat’s presence.

  


“Then d—… do not, for the sake of Michael.” Kara knows that she changes the words last moment by the look in her eyes. She has seen it before, whenever her CatCo persona wins out on the indecision. “His reputation,” Cat clarifies, retreating her hand to remain awkwardly by her side. Her eyes look so green under the lighting and Kara wishes they could go few minutes back.

  


Her other hand traces through the whimsical strand of hair that used to be coiled and twisted almost pristinely. It’s caught between two fingers and if she truly pulled, Kara isn’t sure she wouldn’t follow.

  


But she _can’t_.

  


(Isn’t that the problem?)

  


She blinks and already feels the pull weaken as the strand slacks. Release. (It brings her _none_ ). By the time eyes open, too wide and young she imagines, Cat is stepping away. And suddenly Kara’s desperate, and even if her fingers don’t, words reach for Cat.

  


“You are the one who wanted to dance,” she reminds her, sadly, and is struck by a familiar sense of abandonment. A part of her wonders what Cat will publish after this; knows that Cat may know the word to describe this much better in precious ( _bittersweet_ ) hindsight.

  


“I shouldn’t have,” Cat murmurs, making no move to be unheard. She takes a deep breath, looking up (and _just like that_ , Kara can see all her walls rebuilding). “But I’m glad I did, Kara.”

  


Kara doesn’t know what to say to that—too _stunned_ , she supposes—and ends up saying nothing as Cat departs, ever the vision in the red dress. Several seconds pass and although Kara could follow Cat’s descent into the crowd easily by x-ray vision, she doesn’t.

  


“Cat Grant,” Michael steps in, musing. “A great woman.”

  


“Yeah,” Kara acquiesces, and the dryness of her throat informs her of just how long has passed since she spoke (or how long has passed where she has been standing, lips parted in a stunned expression, among peers whom she is supposed to _work with_ ).

  


A light inhale lets her know that he means to talk (about what, she hardly cares, and she supposes this due to her stunned state), and yet she only half-listens. “She’s the one who suggested you, you know.”

  


“Wait, ...what?”

  


Because she doesn’t need Cat, a defiant (and _ignorant_ ) part of her insists immediately.

  


Michael nods conversationally, sips his champagne (letting it swirl in his mouth and grimacing slightly at the aftertaste). “Yeah, and I had half the mind to refuse it out of spite. But then I discovered how competent you were and I had to give it to her: you make for the woman for the job, Kara.”

  


  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so it’s been a while since I updated but tbh, I am traveling around and simply haven’t had the time to sit down and write, much less edit this. My friend requested some Alex and Kara time and I figure, no Kara without Alex, right? So this focuses a bit on them, while preparing Kara for some Cat heavy life style choices.

A slight _squeak_ passes Alex’ lips at the hug; and it acts as a warning and reminder for the Kryptonian to release her sister before bones break. Mind you, Kara has never broken any of Alex’ bones with a hug, but she’s been cautious with her strength for a while now. Kara relinquishes her sister just in time to avoid bruising, or any damage, and she’s flustered at the thought that so much time has passed, she is unsure how to hug her own _sister_.

 

Alex does not look baffled, or hurt, or like she minds at all.

 

( _She should_ , a voice at the back of her head berates, _because look at what Kara’s powers did_. It’s a voice that Kara readily subdues, banishes to the depths of her mind.)

 

She cannot stop it, the way her fingers reach out to whisk Alex’ hair aside, to get a look at her sister. It’s been months, despite the vow they made to never go that far apart since they both came to reside in National City. Yet as all things have had it since the National City Tragedy, there is a _before_ and an _after_.

 

_After_ -style Alex looks worse for wear.

 

It is not that she is physically injured; Kara’s post-hug checkup would have betrayed any poorly concealed injury. It’s more of an, _aura_ , the blonde supposes, frowning at her own unsureness. She is worn around the edges, has gained a bit more muscle since they last saw, and a ghoulish, purplish hint suggests someone recently socked her in the jaw. She doesn’t wince under the light inspection of Kara’s fingertips but her mouth is already opened in an attempt to dissuade the other of her worry.

 

“Kara…”

 

“You’re here,” she opts, relief clear even to herself. Although she’s been longing to hug her sister in every phone call, it’s nothing compared to having her sister stand in front of her, albeit worse for wear, and feel the fragrance of her perfume in her nostrils, let hands trace the lines she knows so well.

 

“Yeah, I am,” Alex says and beams sheepishly as Kara steps aside to let her sister into the small hallway.

 

To Alex’ credit, she doesn’t comment on the messiness that defines the living room of her crammed apartment. Her roommate is out of town for the week, but to be honest, the mess isn’t entirely to blame on Bethany’s open-layout laundry plan. The path to the couch is ( _almost_ ) clear, and after throwing themselves into the soft cushions, Kara’s eyes find the purplish spot once more.

 

It’s not like she can just ignore it. Alex is her _sister_.

 

“What happened?”

 

The smile falters and Kara recognizes that look of when she’s about to deflect. But then the sheepishness returns, and Alex caves.

 

“This escapee got a bit too close, that’s all. We had a generator fail and in the while it took the backup to kick in, he got out of his cell.”

 

If Kara didn’t know better, she’d swear Alex sounds almost disappointed. It makes her frown, and she’s about to ask what kind of alien he was, what his powers were, until she realizes that it’s not her place to do that anymore.

 

(That it’s not her place to protect her sister _anymore_.)

 

“So, no news on the Jeremiah front?” she asks quietly, sensing a need to not inquire. What Alex can tell her is limited, anyway; since Supergirl cannot return to National City, her participation is limited, and divulging information to Kara could actually get Alex in trouble. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

 

( _Whose fault is that?_ )

 

“Nothing affirmative. We’ve gone a few places, but there is so much red tape… you wouldn’t believe it.” She sounds discouraged, and it makes Kara’s heart break. Because while she has wallowed at her own part in the National City Tragedy, she has too easily forgotten that Alex has gone almost a year with the knowledge that her father is alive.

 

_Alive_.

 

Not that the parallel doesn’t sting. But Kara has sworn to help where she can; she won’t lose another parent, not again.

 

(Losing Astra was like losing Alura all over again, in a way.)

 

“We’ll find him, Alex.” Kara doesn’t know _how_ , but she cannot see her sister keep this ghoulish look of thwarted hopefulness around. “I want to help so badly, but…”

 

(But National City is a place where Kara can no longer _go_.)

 

Alex’ look is more of a skeptical _Will we?_ but she says, “I know, Kara… I know that.”

 

* * *

 

 

“How’s work?” comes Alex’ muffled question, paired with a hint of genuine interest and a mouthful of ravioli (she has yet to find Metropolis’ dumplings to reach her potsticker standards). Kara looks up to find an expectant look on her sister’s face that is remarkably akin to the one she faced after an awkward date with Toby O’Malley in eleventh grade.

 

“It’s good, good.” She uses the fork to pick at the pasta, back and forth, back and forth, tracing abstract geometrics. She holds her breath uncomfortably. “I’m actually working with CatCo again. _Sorta_.”

 

“What, Cat? _How?_ ” It’s not that there’s disbelief in her sister’s voice, more confusion. Then again, in their phone chats, there has never been much time to discuss the small details of what Kara’s work at _Minding Hands_ entails. Like always, the _how_ comes out a bit too harsh, too authoritative and Alex is quick to amend, softening the confrontational look. “I mean, I thought you were looking at spreadsheets….”

 

“I do! I mean, not _all_ the time… obviously,” Kara rants nervously, and she doesn’t suppose that anyone but Alex would understand the flustered noises. “Grahams put me in charge of coordinating events. Some of the big donors are National City based and one of them _happens_ to be the CatCo Foundation,” Kara tells her, like it is just coincidence, that’s all.

 

(That’s what she’s been telling herself at night when she can’t sleep, anyway.)

 

Alex worries, of course. (It’s what Alex _does_. What she’s _always done_. Even when the sky was burning and thousands died on that despicable eve.) “Kara, you can’t go back, you k—”

 

“Of course I do, Alex.” Kara sighs, and she pretends it is not because of how the fact still makes her sad after all these months. She looks down at her pasta, apathetic, barely concealing the pout that threatens to spill over her face. She feels _five_. “I told Grahams that I couldn’t go. He assumed it was for emotional reasons.”

 

It isn’t a lie. Not like how she claims even the name won’t affect her, but stiffens the moment someone brings up National City.

 

Kara’s voice has gone low, disparaged. It isn’t until she feels Alex’ hand curl over her own that she releases the breath she hadn’t even known she’s been holding. She doesn’t muster words, can’t quite bring herself to speak, and so just silently accepts it when Alex scoots over and nearly brings the Kryptonian into her lap. Italian forgotten, Kara takes a deep breath, and then another, and loses count at how many she has to take to steady herself before she calms down, her heartbeat synced to Alex’ very human one.

 

“I have a… _theory_.” Alex’ voice drops like she is already trying to downplay it, as if she is critical enough, the sheer power of spite will relent against her.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Remember how the Kryptonians of Fort Rozz modified their suits against our kryptonite?”

 

“Yeah, you said they counteracted the effects.” It doesn’t strike her as _relevant_ —from what she’s gathered by numerous reports, the emitters did the Kryptonians in Non’s army no good; they died _regardless_ ly due to the severe extent of the radiation.

 

( _Just as Lord planned_ , a voice hisses.)

 

“The DEO were unable to salvage any of the suits—” Alex pauses here, like the thought is expected to disturb an increasingly paling Kara, who thinks of the dozens of Kryptonians who had none left to perform the burial rites. “… but I have been working  to imitate the counteract in the hopes of modifying them further. It’s not much, but there’s a chance that the DEO could synthesize a compound that would eventually allow Kryptonians to… ”

 

“You mean, I could go _home_.”

 

Kara can’t help her optimism. It floods her devastatingly fast. (Because even after so many months, Metropolis isn’t home in any way that _matters_.)

 

“I’m not saying anything,” Alex says with the caution of a scientific mind. The message is clear in her eyes, that she hopes for the same; and Kara truly believes that if she could do it this instance, she’d sacrifice the world to see Kara returned to her old life.

 

But sacrificing the world isn’t— _luckily_ —something Alex has to even consider. It’s a burden Kara is happy to never see imposed on Alex’ face.

 

“I have faith in you, Alex.”

 

* * *

 

 

_‘—Crater, what’s your position?’_

 

_‘Um, two, one klick.’_

 

_‘Morgana, have you reached—’_

 

‘Morgana, _really?’_ squeals Kara as she scans the brownstone warehouse with her x-ray vision upon approach.

 

_‘—that’s really not the time for the discussion of call signs, Crater.’_

 

To Kara, Vazquez sounds vaguely amused. ‘ _Morgana, Crater, can we get back on mission here… Crater, stand by for interference.’_

 

_‘Sure, I’ll be watching Le Fay over here._ ’

 

‘ _Overwatch, I’m headed east now_ ,’ Alex says a little too quickly, as Kara grinningly pays homage to her sister’s childhood obsession with Arthurian legends.

 

‘ _I’ve got movement on second floor,_ ’ Kara reports, adjusting her eyes to pick up the outline of the figure whose movement across the creaky floorboards alerted Kara’s hearing to his presence.

 

_‘Morgana, stand down and await orders.’_

 

_‘What? No, we’re this close to finding out if there’s—’_

 

_‘We can’t risk blowing this,’_ Vasquez reminds her sister. Kara picks up on the tension between the two. Like Vasquez is expecting protest.

 

She’s getting the strangest feeling that Alex has been skipping too many details in the late phone calls.

 

‘ _All clear, Overwatch. He is headed down the southern staircase_.’

 

‘ _Mall cop doing rounds, probably_.’

 

‘ _We can’t know, Morgana_.’

 

The _we can’t trust that either_ lingers in the air. Dynamics have changed in the eight months Kara’s been gone, she can tell. (Not that she expected things to remain the same, but she never expected Vasquez to rein her sister in like that.)

 

‘ _Proceed, Crater. Morgana, approach with caution._ ’

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the operation—results leaving them no closer to an accurate location of the Cadmus operation by Kara’s estimates—Kara returns to her apartment, letting fingertips travel across the dark bodysuit. It moves like nothing else, and is painfully dissimilar to the red and blues of her costume.

 

_It’s better this way_ , she tells herself halfheartedly. This is about helping Alex, helping Jeremiah and even the DEO in a way.

 

(Even if Lucy seemed very unimpressed to discover Vasquez’ downtime operation in the outskirts of Metropolis, if Kara heard enough of the other end to tell.)

 

She begs herself to be convinced that such is why she still hasn’t flown.

 

(Her call sign choice was no less meaningful than Alex’; although perhaps less produced by the whimsical obsessions of an innocent child. 

 

_The remains of something terrible having been flung at the world_.)

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken fucking ages and I'm sorry. Truth be told, I have 80% of this chapter written up and forgot completely about it, and then self-criticism prevented immediate publishing. But better late than never, eh? So, to the people who've stuck around: here it is, the (at least partial) confrontation, and a chapter that compensates for the lack of Cat in last chapter.

_It is no_ _different_ , Kara scolds herself, than any other odd meeting with the donors. Yet she’s biting her bottom lip—to no avail—outside one of the two conference rooms that _Minding Hands_ ’ Faraday Street office houses, hand still on the doorknob and painfully aware of how keenly she has to remind herself not to press too hard on the mistreated piece of aluminum.

 

She has to force herself to take a deep breath as she watches the emissary of Isaacs Ltd. depart—pockets relieved of duties, so to say. She has secured another of Mike’s promising donors, appealing slickly to the sense of philanthropic egoism that dominates half of  _ Hands’ _ big donors; or at least half of the list Mike sent her to warm up. After seeing the Montgomerys—thankfully scheduled on alternating days—on such list, she has deduced his intentions and even called him out on it, to which he cheekily grinned and told her he had every bit of faith.

 

_ Faith _ . A word that even to this day brings along Kryptonian notions of Rao. (She’s found that the notion is used more callously here, and it still makes her frown). Of course, she’d smiled nervously and headed off to the Isaacs appointment, and she suspects Raphael to have whisked Mike away by now, as she consults the watch on her wrist. 12:23. It’s no wonder that the Isaacs Ltd. representative was eager to wrap things up.

 

A growl from a stomach alerts her (as well) to the fact that it has been more than two hours since she had something to eat. While her metabolism does not require outrageous amounts that border heroic proportions, inactive Kryptonian cells still make demands of her; demands that her tight schedule protests against, to little avail. (She’d wolfed down a Subway foot-long in thirty seconds, having left the honey mustard sauce at the corner of her mouth to puzzle a mystified coworker).

 

She skims her list; there is still another appointment before the twenty-minute slot that implies lunch hour, a prospect that makes the pout quite audible as a sigh escapes her. It’s not that she can complain—most of the scheduling is suggested by the parameters she offered Mike’s secretary regarding availability, but she really hadn’t expected to guide through them back to back.

 

“Don’t  _ slouch _ , it’s hardly attractive,” comes the voice from behind her—always behind her, she realizes as the slouch corrects itself immediately into rebar proportions. She bites the yelp from her mouth and turns.

 

“Cat.” Her tone is quite formal, even for a first name usage.

 

(It’s an odd thing that strikes Kara—that it’s the first time in nearly a year that she sees her former boss in the light of day; dispelling any of Liza’s theories regarding Grant vampirism).

 

She recovers admirably quickly. “W—was I?” Kara isn’t sure, and she half expects Cat to point it out. She’s still quite dazzled at seeing Cat here—surely she isn’t on the li—

 

_ Oh _ . 12:30:  _ Rep. from CATCO _ . In the neat handwriting of Mike, unlike the secretary’s scribbles that make the rest of the list. She wants to be furious but finds that anger dissipates, and she’s instead smiling rather sheepishly.

 

“Most definitely. Oh well, I assume I haven’t flown out to this dreadful city on the basis of some secretary’s  _ faux pas _ ?” Cat’s eyebrow appears sardonic; raised with just enough of that tantamount annoyance that suggests she just might do more than file a complaint if it turns out to truly be the result of some secretary’s error. Kara doesn’t know whether to be offended, or flattered that Cat thinks she has access to a secretary.

 

“No, you are my 12:30,” Kara states seamlessly, willing herself to avoid the urge to fidget with her glasses. Regardless, they feel loose around the bridge of her nose.  _ Perhaps… _ She dismisses the notion and gestures for Cat to enter the conference room.

 

“A conference room? Kara, has Michael taught you  _ nothing _ ?” Her words elicit annoyance from Kara. For all the softness she spoke with, and  _ of _ , at the Writing Guild Awards—where the editorial staff of  _ The Tribune _ ran off with three awards—her words offer little of that zest now. In addition to having spent an entire morning with back to back meetings of wealthy clients and no room to eat, it grinds Kara’s nerves.

 

“It would appear not.”

 

“Snappish, are we? Perhaps you aren’t beyond reach quite yet,” Cat says triumphantly and grabs her bag. Her assistant is nowhere to be seen, and Kara briefly wonders if she’ll have to fetch her at the lost and found section. Since the Christmas party, she has not been dying to see whatever remnants remain of the evening. “Come on, we haven’t all day. Chop-chop.”

 

Kara’s eyes widen, then frown. Annoyed, Cat clarifies, as if offended that she even has to. “ _ Lunch _ , Kara, you should know what I like by now. You can’t have  _ entirely _ forgotten.”

 

* * *

 

 

The name of the restaurant is one that Kara recognizes—from the Daily Planet’s gossip column denoting the haunts of celebrities because surely those are the only to afford the dinner in the handsome setting. Cat sits down like she’s a regular, possessing none of the discomfort that Kara feels at imposing on the place.

 

She doesn’t belong here ( _ anywhere _ ), that much is evident, she needs only look left or right and compare herself to the demeanors of those that surround her, and she has half the mind to—

 

“Kara,” Cat says, and the sternness of her tone implies it is a repetition. Kara realizes she must’ve been zoning out again (or mounting a panic attack). Her eyes snap to Cat immediately, and it takes her  _ embarrassingly _ long to dart her eyes up from the curve of her jaw.

 

(For a moment, she’s an artist; judging and studying, planning how to best imitate the tension in that slender bone, the sheen of the flesh re-portrayed in acrylics… No, _ not acrylics _ , oil based paints…)

 

“I took the liberty of ordering while you were studying the architecture of the silverware.” She speaks with an eye-rolling callous, as if she was reproachful of Kara’s lack of finesse. Something she can hardly blame Kara for, Kara thinks, but her protest dies. Frankly, she’s too happy at the news of impending arrival of food to be truly sullen.

 

“There is something different about you,” Cat appraises rather bluntly, her gaze sharp.

 

“I’m not dressed in a gown this time,” Kara offers playfully, although the dress she recalls is the number that Cat wore; it makes her nails dig into the table, fortunately out of Cat’s view.

 

There is a glimpse of something in Cat’s eyes then, as if she’s restraining a smile. It occurs to Kara that she isn’t the only one holding things back, and for some reason, it makes her very self-conscious.

 

“I wouldn’t necessarily call that an improvement. After all, I appreciated the way it looked on you.”

 

Kara has to remember for more than several seconds that this  _ isn’t _ a lunch date (even if it’s beginning to feel like one, the way Cat’s almost flirting with her—not that Kara would know much about lunch dates. In that regard, her social life is limited when not nonexistent). She’s afraid she’s staring and flustering a bit noticeably when food comes to the rescue, accompanied by the waiter’s accented  _ Bon appétit _ .

 

“What made you come?” she asks, a minute later after she’s dived in and tasted the savoring steak. The seasoning is enough to make her  _ moan _ (not that she does), and she’s feeling bold. “You could’ve sent anyone.”

 

It’s a lot to demand of Cat, and Kara half expects her to brush it off with the usual way of diminishing her interests in Kara. Kara doubts any of Cat’s former—or  _ current _ —assistants get half as much attention, and that’s not even because she thinks highly of herself, but because she knows, or  _ used _ to know, Cat Grant’s sparsely timed schedule.

 

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Cat replies, each movement of the salad fork seemingly delicate and articulate. As if she is speaking some language that is not remotely wired to the Kryptonese dialect, and thus escaping Kara completely.

 

“After…” Kara means the article (and she’s prepared to be angry about it, too) but then she remembers being in Cat’s arms, dancing, and that look of soft regret.  _ But I’m glad I did, Kara _ .

 

“Last time.” It’s not like she’s been  _ sleepless _ since. But she’s certainly had enough to think about; and although it’s mostly been a reaction to Cat’s… everything, as of late; it’s not entirely related to her at all. Kara cannot allow herself to be defined by Cat’s dancing or journalism, or even the new approach of the CatCo magazine. Yet Cat has been overstepping, hypocritically so, and not even with her Kryptonian powers can Kara keep up.

 

“Yes,” Cat confirms simply, reaches for the glass of water. Kara would have expected her to go for the wine beside it, but reminds herself it’s barely one o’clock. Maybe something  _ has _ changed. Something that, for all her powers, Kara cannot change back. Cat speaks like it was  _ simple _ , that it didn’t cause Kara to question things about herself, like she dances like that with everyone. But it wasn’t simple, not to Kara, who remembers the final discovery that night—the one that  _ did _ leave her lying sleepless.

 

“You told Michael I was fit for the job,” she replies tensely, words dripping with accusation; hoping that it’s enough for Cat to spill a confession although she should know better by now.

 

“So? It was a good recommendation. Better than most other assistants, before or since.” Ah, so she’s gone through several; hardly surprisingly, considering it’s been a year. What number is the blonde that’s been doglegging her at the parties?

 

“I didn’t ask for it, I—I didn’t want it.”  _ Didn’t deserve it.  _ She looks away, unable to bear the anger of her words, the sense of being wronged by Cat’s decency. Cat  _ should _ blame her, and yet when she does, publicly between the lines of the articles of the CatCo magazine, it upsets Kara unreasonably.

 

“It was all a matter of appearances, anyway,” Cat scoffs and Kara has the grace to look offended.

 

“Appearances?” Whatever they’d had, whatever she had thought them, it had been more than the sake of appearances. Reproach builds up in her, and she snaps.  “Please,  _ spare me _ .”

 

“It’s true. To others with a less attuned eye—the frolicking editorial staff, perhaps, I trained them poorly,” Cat dismisses, “ —except for perhaps Parkinson—“

 

“Parkinson?” Kara recognizes the name. Emily, the journalist who wrote the first condemning piece.

 

“She came to me, the little weasel. I supposed I should have been grateful that she came to me first.”

 

“Why?”

 

“She knew, or suspected. Despite my best attempts of thwarting your revelation—yes, whatever you may think of me,  _ Supergirl _ , I defended you—she threatened to publish unless I gave a full interview.” She pauses, and something passes over her features that Kara, for all her insight into Cat Grant, cannot read. “So I disavowed you. Disavowed  _ her _ .”

 

Like they were two separate people.

 

“Why?” Kara’s confusion is cosmic, apparent on her face.

 

“Because it was that or revealing to the world that Supergirl was Kara Danvers.  _ Muddying _ your reputation seemed a gentle affair compared to having your life exposed and I—.”

 

Cat stops herself as if she’s said too much. Perhaps she has, because Kara figures out the rest.  _ Exposed _ . Like Cat was, like Carter was, in the divorce. It’s quite ironic, considering she runs an empire that’s built on news report. How many issues would the magazine have sold? Even after the tragedy, people still have an appetite for what happened.

 

“You were  _ blackmailed _ ?” The idea sounds blasphemous to Kara; Kara—who has watched Cat’s cutthroat approach to even the insinuation of a threat, Cat who has wielded the same nonchalant disinterest into extortion attempts by lawyers and board members. “For me?”

 

Cat sighs, and it travels through her body, giving pause. “Please,” she says, like the very idea is amusing and worthy of an eye roll. She grabs the wine glass and sips liberally. “Whatever you may  _ think _ ,” she stresses sharply, “I didn’t do it  _ for _ you.”

 

Kara inhales and look down. No, of course Cat didn’t. She should have told herself as much, and isn’t it—

 

“I did it  _ because of _ you, Kiera.” Despite of the misuse of her name, Kara looks up, eyes as bright as ever. “I can’t even argue with you, can I? You’re like a kicked puppy.” There is meant to be disdain, perhaps, disgust at the weakness and indecision, but Cat just looks sad.

 

“ _ Argue _ with me?” Kara retorts, incredulously, once she regains the power to speak.

 

“Why of course,” Cat replies, like it’s obvious. “You didn’t  _ listen _ to me, did you? You just  _ went off _ and  _ left _ —.” Cat stops herself again, downing the glass and spending more than her usual time regaining her composure.

 

_ Left National City. _

 

_ Left you. _

 

“I hardly had a choice.” Kara’s are the words to break the silence, and they are quiet, or maybe the silence of Cat’s regaining (or whatever describes the pause and  _ stillness _ between them—and it’s not the one that has lingered for months; but it did not appear out of  _ nowhere _ either, and Kara is realizing that perhaps this is why she has held her breath whenever she’s run into Cat since the day of the tragedy. That part of her has been  _ expecting _ this.)

 

She half expects the ‘ _ There’s always a choice’ _ to pass Cat’s lips, but instead, she looks exhausted. Defeated, even, for a moment. When Cat doesn’t, Kara is the one to fill the silence. “Perhaps I did, but it wasn’t one I was going to live with.”

 

Several minutes pass before Cat meets her eyes. “And to think you don’t think you’re a hero.” A court chuckle follows, amused at the irony but not the content. There’s a journalist’s glimmer in her eyes.

 

Once more, Kara is stunned. How does she know? She certainly hasn’t been one to  _ ask _ —then again, she reminds herself, Cat always saw more than everybody else.

 

“You’re upset with me because of what I  _ did _ ,” Kara says, putting voice to the realization she has made during the brief lunch, folding the napkin in her lap as she gets up to leave, “and you’re upset with me because of what I  _ didn’t _ .”

 

_ That I dropped the bomb. _

 

_ That I didn’t stay behind. _

 

But surely Cat knows she couldn’t; that there was no third option where thousands didn’t die, and the day was saved and Supergirl could fly across unirradiated skies.

 

For the sliver of a moment, Cat looks lost, like she’s the fallen hero (—angel, Kara’s mind wants to correct, but it’s hardly the time) and Kara is the one to whom she looks for advice. But then the mask slips back into place, and Kara can see the defiant woman, the queen of an empire, again. She wonders if that’s what Cat sees in her in times of personal conflict. And then grows shocked at how she’s allowed this insight that she’s only ever seen on balconies in National City.

 

(She nearly apologizes for the vehemence in her voice before realizing that she doesn’t know how. Wonders then, how can Cat make her feel at  _ home _ and a  _ stranger _ at the same time?)

 

“Kara,” Cat says, like she’s ascribing a lesson in something particular wistful, “the world had dilemmas before you came around.”

 

Kara feels like she’s being patronized, and anger builds up in her immediately; in a low voice, she speaks, sitting back down and glaring at Cat who is unwavering—who doesn’t flinch under the gaze that could (and has)  _ scorched _ buildings.

 

“Then how come you’re so  _ invested _ in what I did?” Kara hisses, and she can feel that she’s losing control of what she’s saying. Luckily her tone is low enough to not draw attention to their table from other customers. “It’s not your place to blame me, I blame myself for it just  _ fine _ .”

 

( _ Not your place anymore _ .)

 

“People deserve the right to judge….,” Cat points out slowly, with impossible caution. It’s a very Cat thing to say—always defending the freedom of journalism’s readers. 

 

“ _ People _ , yes. But you were never just people,  _ Cat _ .” Kara’s eyes widen the moment she’s done—she can’t remember having spoken this venomously at Cat since that time in her office where she exploded at her and accused her of not caring and being unreasonable. If only she’d known then. 

 

Every bone in her body is telling her to run. Whatever Cat has to say—to judge, because isn’t it all she’s done all lunch?—Kara  _ doesn’t _ want to hear it. (Cannot  _ bear _ to hear it, if she’s being honest with herself.) The noise of the chair scraping against the polished floors make her want to wince as she gets up to leave, panicking internally.  _ Breathe,  _ Kara _. Breathe.  _

 

She’s three feet away when she hears Cat release her breath. Tears well up in her eyes before she’s out of the door, the jacket hastily reclaimed. She loses herself in Metropolis traffic soon after, wishing so badly she could fly away from the way Cat Grant makes her feel. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments are VERY appreciated, as this is my first time writing in this fandom and first time after a year-long break from fanfic. You can find me here or on http://showedmethestars.tumblr.com


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